Guardian Angel
by Patroclus76
Summary: Dean encounters Sam’s obsessions with Angels. Mid series two in the wake of Houses of the Holy, but before Roadkill, in which Sam himself seems, to me at least, to take on the qualities of Uriel, an Angel of death, gently leading lost souls to rest.
1. Chapter 1

-1**Guardian Angel. **

**Part One of Two. **

_Patroclus76. _

Sam and Dean Slash. Category M.

Usual disclaimers: I do not own Supernatural, and merely emboss other peoples talents, no violation of copy write intended.

_**Summary**: Dean encounters Sam's obsessions with angels. Mid series two in the wake of **Houses of the Holy**, but before the **Roadkill**, in which Sam himself seems, to me at least, to take on the qualities of Uriel, an Angel of death, gently leading lost souls to their redemption. _

__________________________________

I know Sam is wide awake. I can tell by the pattern of his breathing; irregular, preoccupied, deep sighs followed by silence. I can also tell by his movements: sudden, angular spasms of restlessness followed by unnatural stillness. Lying with the side of my head wedged into the pillow and facing in his general direction, I see him hunkered up, leaning into the bed head, over attentive, a smudged outline against the grey wall. Not only is Sam wide awake, he has obviously been awake all fucking night!

Irritated, vaguely worried; _smitten, _I feel a ghost of a smile on my lips. Sam seems to sense it because his head moves slightly and I catch a gleam in his eyes. I then hear him mutter something to himself, shaking his head like a drifter or a bag boy. Despite myself, the smile on my face becomes a grin, and my heart swells heavy with affection. I move slowly, faking sleep, enjoying my voyeurism, my solitary obsession with my brother. I can almost hear Sam's brain whirling and clanking, spinning away like a fucking mainframe computer! I try and guess the time: it must be early morning, has to be: no traffic, no distant buzz from television sets; not even a dog barking. Fuzzy and comfortable in my own smell, I lean up on one arm and rub my face theatrically, simulating semi-conscious surprise.

`Sam?'

'Hey, Dean man, did I wake you?' His voice is eager, glad to have succeeded. He can be such a manipulative bitch at times.

`Course not: I'm a light sleeper!' I hear him snort, knowing his exact smile, the precise curve of his cheeks. Sam is totally high on some moral dilemma, a fundamental clash within his ethical sub-routine. Jesus! I know Sam's every tone, every colour of mood: he is actually part of me in some weird sense: always has been, right down to the 1970's poster boy hair cut and his side burns. I throw the sheets back, swing around, re-arrange my balls and then decide that I need a piss. Sam turns his face towards me, and I catch another flash of his eyes, feral like, as if he is a giant cat.

`What's up Sammy, milk and cookies keep you wake AGAIN?' I parody my sense of irritation but more a moment is it very real.

I hear another appreciative snort. I sway towards the washroom, click on the light, lift the pan lid and piss loudly, provocatively, eager to provoke Sam into one of his preppy asides.

`Dean, piss to the side for god's sake – you're such a jock!'

`Hey! Let me piss on my own!' I enjoy the innuendo, shaking my cock appreciatively.

`Hey and don't forget to wash your hands!'

`You're a bully, Sam: all this crap about me bullying you is a complex decoy – a ruse.' I turn the faucet on and make as much noise as I can. For good measure I splash my face several times and then scrutinise myself in a shaving mirror. `You handsome bastard!' I mutter, although my eyes are baggy and slightly swollen. I see that my lower lip is still cut and bruised and there is also a crease mark from the pillow on my left cheek, as if someone has undertaken facial surgery and then wandered off, forgetting to stitch the wound. I click the light off. Sam is saying something in that light, flirtatious, cocky way of his.

`Dean, did you just use the word `ruse'?'

For a nanosecond I almost miss the skilled dig at my IQ.

`Yeah? I believe I did, Sammy: I believe I heard you use it the other day. I'm a quick learner.'

I pause by the foot of his bed. My eyes have adjusted to the monochrome gloom of the motel room. At some stage on his lonely vigil, Sam has peeled his T shirt off and is now sitting up holding his knees, a prudish, self contained gesture that makes him look like a genie, with his long arms snaked about his legs. He looks contemplative, _painfully_ cute. For a moment my need to protect him, to watch over him, literally overwhelms me. I am aware that Sam is looking at me.

`What?'

`Nothing. Please god tell me you got some sleep tonight. Sam: please!'

`I tell God everything, Dean: well almost everything!'

I rub my face again and cross over towards my own single bed but then stop midway. I have a sudden, compulsive urge to be close to Sam, to let him touch me. I cross over and sit on the edge of his bed, my back towards him. I feel about one million years old, worried sick; deeply in love. The object of my love picks up the scent of my anxiety and leans up, attentive.

`I know exactly what this is about, Sammy boy: this is about fucking angels, isn't it? Thus is about the nature of god and divine judgement?'

`Dean, you have to watch your use of syntax: I don't want to fuck any angels, at least not tonight.'

Why is it that, sometimes, the tone of his voice gives me goose bumps? Why does he sometimes take my breath away? College boys! One minute all cock and assertion, then suddenly soft, beguiling, like a caress. Sam's young man's vulnerability seems to stab me metaphorically between the eyes. I half turn towards him.

`I'm right though, aren't I? This is about Father Gregory and a higher power!'

Sam leans forward and, without warning, snakes his hands around my waist. His face is so close to the back of my neck that his breath tickles me. Or perhaps it's the David Cassidy hair again?

`Hey!' my voice feigns irritation, in part to hide my smug sense of satisfaction. Sam is so easy to goad, to tempt. He's is so fucking tactile; he probably thinks in textures! Rebuked, Sam dutifully disengages and backs away from my personal space, but suggestively, as if the loss is all mine. When I turn around his is surprisingly close, as if trying to see my thoughts. His bone carved face looks very young, _especially_ angst ridden now: I feel an almost physical pain in my chest. God save me from my brother! I have a weird urge to stick my tongue out and lick his nose. I want to hold him tight and close and tell him I love him and that nothing will hurt him, ever.

For a while we scrutinise each other like strangers. At a moment like this, Sam is utterly beautiful to me; a burden, a responsibility, something that I can neither express or fully discharge. Has it always been like this? Did dad's revelation make the burden heavier? Did I always know that Sam was different, special? `

`What is it?' Sam's voice is deadpan, mischievous as if he can taste my thoughts. But it also sounds sad, as if he has caught my anxiety!

`God you can be a smug little bastard sometimes!' I want to lighten the mood. `You should be careful, I might bite you!'

I move my face back a bit, as if I am trying to scrutinise him. He then whispers very gently `If that's what you want.'

`I want you to sleep and stop thinking, dude! You'll think yourself into an early grave – we've already talked about this Sammy, exhaustively! why can't you leave it!' My voice had turned plaintive, `You're so fucking retentive! And why do you always have to touch!'

`Touch?'

I am tired. I am not sure I had meant to say that exactly.

`I was working on a complex metaphor – part of which was touch, but' I raise my voice `but you know what I mean?'

He moves his face towards me very slowly, very suggestively. For a moment I am afraid he is going to kiss me. I nerve myself to not jerk my head back. He stops very close to me. I can smell him, soapy: a trace of alkaline, sharp, like a damp forest.

`Flirt.' I murmur. The room is cold. I feel light headed, in need of sleep. `Look I've told you I'll save your ass, Sam: you think you're damned and your not! It's about free will - why do I have to tell you that! You can make your own life? I will always be there for you!'

Sam sighs, and then he says something odd, revealing.

`I need to believe in Angels, Dean. I need to believe that we can be saved, all of us, not just me, but you and Dad. I want to believe that we send spirits to a better place or to eternal judgement.'

`Why?' I am exasperated. We are still looking at each other as if we have met by accident in a crowded elevator or something. `Why do you think so much, all the time! You should try not thinking at all, Sam! Just do the job, move on!'

`Yeah?' But Sam is distracted again, I can tell - he has pursed his lips and half closed his eyes. `Dean, listen: we have seen demons - we have seen evil, why haven't we seen Angels? Why haven't we seen some manifestation of God! Wy do we see only half of the picture? If there is evil in the world there has to be good? Satan is a fallen Angel, he was cast out and contained!'

Deftly, chick-like, Sam resumes an argument I thought I had satisfactorily concluded and won three days ago.

`You know you defy description, Sam, you really do!' I swing up and find I am lying next to him, shoulder to shoulder, the headboard on our necks. He seems mildly surprised, either by the movement or the rebuke, but he suddenly moves over slightly across the single bed to make room, cursing under his breath.

`I'm cold, ok!' I say as he looks at me searchingly. Next minute amid a mild storm of fidgeting, Sam has peeled back an edge of the duvet and slipped it over my legs. We must look vaguely absurd, like Laurel and fucking Hardy. I can feel Sam's warmth cocooned around his buttocks and lower back.

`I've been reading up on Angels, Dean.' Sam sounds so wide awake and so fucking motivated I want to put my fist through a wall. I lean forward, re-arrange the pillow, and next minute Sam has slipped out of the bed and is looking for his laptop like a dog searching for his bone.

`Sam it's nearly four am! Can't this wait!'

`Quit whining, Dean: I am going to make you believe if it's the last thing I do! I want to see God!' the intensity of his voice surprises me, even for Sam. I roll my eyes and say `God damn it!' The chances of an early start have clearly evaporated.

Surprisingly Sam is naked. It's unusual in that we have both long adopted the habit of sleeping in boxer shorts and T shirts. It's weird also in that the room we're in - some empty moonscape - is chilly as fuck. Perhaps all the thinking has caused my brother to overheat? I watch Sam as he ferrets about for his gizmo, lithe, broad shouldered, his waist narrowing elegantly. His looks both boyish but incredibly svelte. So unlike me and Dad and yet so alike at the same time. He finds the laptop under a pile of books, swings it towards him, grins and walks back towards me. I catch a glimpse of a toned stomach and a dark boss of pubic hair in the dim light. Next minute he clambers into bed next to me, the laptop on, it's ghostly grey light catching his eyes.

`Did you know that the word Angel is an old English derivation of a Hebrew word for messenger? That early Christian discourses on Angels were derived from Judaic traditions and that at the council of Theodosius, around the 4th century AD, there was a long debate as to whether Angels had free will or were merely manifestations of god's purpose?'

I am lying down looking up at Sam. He is reading something, half turning to tell me this, his cheek bone and jaw gently shaded by the LCD screen. He is excited. Seeing him like this vaguely excites me. I feign disinterest.

`_Really_?'

He elbows me and then snakes himself down and starts to read again. He is on a roll.


	2. Chapter 2

-1**Guardian Angel. **

**Part Two of Two. **

_Patroclus76. _

Sam and Dean Slash. Category M.

__________________________________

When Sam is on a roll like this the only thing to do is roll with him. I glance up casually, trying to disguise my sudden interest; in Angels, in Sam, in his extraordinary difference.

`And what did this Theo dude decide?'

`Theodosius.' Sam corrects gently. `Well, he sort of hedged his bets, Dean.'

I frown and look at Sam. I feel surprisingly shocked by this news.

`Really? But Sammy Angels must have free will! I mean, Satan was an Angel, he fell out with God all by himself! Didn't other Angels go down with him?' I hesitate, suddenly unsure of my urban legends. Perhaps I am getting the bible confused with the odd B movie script? Sam clicks the laptop shut and leans back sighing as if Theo's lack of balls on settling this issue decisively still smarts, as if he can personally recall being at the meeting itself. Our heads are very close. Then suddenly he turns his face towards me, twisting on his side as if we are at a slumber party and he's going to whisper a dare. The base of his forearm is warm against my shoulder.

`You see the difficulty for early Christianity was that almost all the scripture and iconography concerning Angels derived from Judaism or even earlier. In fact the seven Archangels predate even the Hebrew _Tanakh_ and derive possibly from Zoroastrian fire worship or even earlier, back to Pagan gods as far apart and distinct as Apollo and Shiva.'

`You don't say?' I purse my lips and nod appreciatively. Sam clearly thinks I am taking the piss because he hesitates. I glance up at him, smile my most charming full on smile. He looks vaguely suspicious but at this range my charm is irresistible. Besides, Sam's encyclopaedic geekness has me sort of panting for more.

`So -' Sam starts again carefully, curious about my mood but still on the Angel mission, `So the early Christians were anxious to separate their faith from others, and to stamp out heresy, especially the devotional worship of Angels as different or separate from God, as if they were deities in their own right. They had to sort out a lot of abstract stuff as well, especially concerning the Holy Trinity.'

He has been whispering intensely and pauses for breath. I have been watching his lips, his face, concentrated into a sort of ecstasy. I look away knowing full well that he has the look I have when glancing at a well laid out porn site with clickable downloads. Except Sam is talking about fucking Angels. I wrest my imagination back to this Theo dude and the Angel `free will' issue. Meanwhile Sam leans up, lap top in hand, and arches down to put it onto the floor by the bed. He exposes a broad pale back to me, etched with muscle and bone, and a deeply incised spine curved like a bow. How did he get to be so tall? I have a completely weird urge to stroke him, to run my hands down his shoulder blades, the top of his neck, as if he is a pet. I even lift my hand in anticipation but stop suddenly, partly because it would be just a weird thing to do, secondly because I seem to finally see Theo man's dilemma on the Angel point.

`ok, ok. I get this. Theodosius really had no choice but to make Angels the manifestation of gods will? You know, there is only one god, and all that crap?' I sound absurdly keen. Sam crashes back into his pillow, and pulling the sheets up to his face, snuggles down next to me like a twelve year old, his eyes and nose peeping out at me. He is grinning.

`Hey, exactly!' Under the sheets he pats my arm and I snatch it way, pissed at being patronised, embarrassingly grateful for being right.

`Exactly.' Sam repeats. `But there was still a problem. Early Christian apocrypha had given some Angels obvious agency which was hard to erase: for instance, take the traditional story that, just before the biblical flood, the Archangel Uriel argued in defence of humankind against their planned destruction and persuaded God to save Noah and his wife! Stories and legends tell of some Angels acting out independently of God's commands. How could they disobey God and go unpunished? What if God had given the right to say no, to think for themselves? Like humans, the right to commit sin?'

`God I love it when you talk like this Sammy, it's such a turn on!'

`Dean!' Again a well placed punch into my side.

`No seriously! I bet you talked to your college chicks like this: `come back to my place and let me tell you about Christian apocra, er apr'

`_Apocrypha_. It means a source of disputable authenticity or non canon.'

`I knew that, damn it! Hey, say `authenticity' again man, slowly, you sound so dirty! Narrow your eyes!'

`Dean!'

But the shocking truth is, he does sound dirty!! Sam sighs expansively, emerges from the sheet as if he has been hiding, and raises his long arms above his head and leaves them playing with the top of the bed head. I find I am looking up into an arm pit and a wedge of triceps. While thinking about Uriel I am distracted again by Sam's young man's smell. I am vaguely wondering if we smell the same.

`Come on Sammy, don't toy with me like this: so what did Theo dude decide exactly? How did he hedge his bets?'

Sam turns and, after a slight pause, resumes in his confident, enchanting whisper.

`Theodosius worked out a complicated hierarchy of Angels, some of which had direct access to the presence of God and were free willed, and other lesser ones who simply did as they were told. But they also had to sort out half angels, and some like the fallen Gregori, who had taken on human form and settled with mortal women and - '

`impregnated them? Wow - like Angel spawn? That's kind of hot, Sammy. But I always thought Angels were women anyway.'

`Yeah well you would! Most of them appear in the form of an athletic youth, derived again from early depictions of Apollo or Endymion. But the Gregori were wayward, lost, capable of _sin and of leading others into sin_.'

Sam gives these words particular emphasis, as if we are close to what's troubling him. Despite being very tired, his tone pricks me awake. I feel the need to muster some energy to get back to my own bed, but Sam has hypnotised me with a complex version of his `blah blah blah' spell and I am totally captivated. I am not sure how this detour into the Christian dilemma on Angels ties up with Sam's angst over Father Gregory and his disappointment over mistaking a household spirit for an Angel. No doubt the punch line is on its way. I am definitely up to hearing it, but suddenly doubtful as to whether I will be conscious when it arrives. Suddenly Sam shakes me gently as if I have nodded off during an interrogation.

`I'm listening! So?' I prompt, looking up at Sam to see how his inner turmoil is progressing and whether we are any closer to the actual point of the conversation.

`Dean, the Christians had to deal with the implication that Angels and Demons shared the same ontological space, that you couldn't have one without the other, and neither without God. That God could let evil thrive and allow terrible things to happen. They also had to comprehend why God allowed evil to exist at all?'

For a moment I blink at him helplessly, as if he has just spoken in Urdu.

`_Ontological _space? Sam, is that even American? Jesus, have you been taking recreational drugs or something?'

Sam laughs. I see a flash of his teeth. He shows an expression of pity and deep love, and then he does something very weird. He fidgets down into the bed and in an act of unconscious spontaneity puts a long arm under my pillow and turning, rests his head on my chest. Since I am still mid thought on Angel spawn and original sin I don't really have time to react. I don't have time to kick in the `no touch' protocol because Sam is still talking, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. I can feel his voice vibrating into my chest through his jaw.

`Ontological space means that, as celestial beings, Angels and demons share a similar origin and are often encountered and explained in similar ways. The highest Angels in established Christian doctrine became known as the _Seraph_, which means `the burning ones' - winged beings in human form but forged of flame.'

`Flames?' I half whisper. I still haven't manage to fake some awkwardness about Sam's proximity. I have a sudden disturbing image of a great fire. I look down at the top of my brother's head.

`But Angels are compassionate, surely - I mean - cuddly?'

`Perhaps.' Sam's voice trails off into a growl. I am suddenly wishing I had my T-shirt off so I could feel his skin on mine. `Look Dean. When you come to think about this it isn't even clear that we'd recognise them if we actually met them! There are so many shades of grey, man!'

`Come on Sammy, they have fucking white fluffy wings and halos!'

He half laughs, half amused, and cranes his neck up so I catch a glimpse of his puppy dog eyes and my heart goes weird and arrhythmic.

`Dean, the Seraph have six wings, and they burn in a blinding light of pitiless vengeance! Uriel translates as the `fire of God! There's nothing fluffy and cuddly about them - when they appeared to mortals the first thing they have to say is `Fear Not! in case the recipient dies of heart failure!'

`I guess so. Six wings?' I am trying to work out how that works, anatomically speaking, when I discover that I am stroking the top of Sam's head, running my fingers through is hair, brushing it away over his face.

`Yeah. Six. _Isaiah_, 6: 1-3.'

`Fucking hell, Sam! You been reading way too much stuff! I mean this is all pretty awesome for a 4.50 am confession, but -

Sam looks up at me. I push his head gently back down onto me so I can resume stroking him. For a minute I fear that my not so little brother will break the intense mood that has settled over me. Instead he returns to his earlier anxiety.

`But where are they, Dean? In the book of Enoch, the seven Seraph ask God to be allowed to avenge the Gregori and contest evil, and then several do so against his will! But why haven't we seen them? We of all people should have seen something by now? I've prayed to see them, for them to come to our aid.'

His voice trails away as if this is too personal a confession to make. I have only recently discovered that Sam has faith. I am still sort of shocked about it. I haven't a fucking clue what he wants me to say but I am desperate to cheer him.

`Perhaps we'll see them at the end, Sammy, like in the _Return of the King_ movie! Perhaps they'll come to the rescue - all seven of them!'

Sam sighs again so deeply and with such melancholy that I think I might actually die on his behalf. I pull his ear gently but he is in one of his `I am damned' moods now and doesn't immediately respond.

`In Tolkien's epic saga, the Valar forsake Middle Earth to the ravages of evil until they were moved to send the five Astari to combat the evil of Sauron, himself a lesser Angel, a Maian, no longer able to take on human form. But the fact remains they abandoned it to darkness for centuries.'

I no longer have the slightest idea what Sam is talking about, let alone what is going on in his crazy head. I stroke his face, feeling out traces of stubble beneath the smooth skin, like grains of sand.

`Sam, I don't have your faith dude. But perhaps God gave us all free will, Angels, demons, men - women as well you understand - so we might chose the right thing, in the end. Perhaps he had to have faith in his great plan himself, that we would all come right, that the logic of the world would unfold as it should?'

It's the best I can do. Sam nuzzles my left breast appreciatively. Encouraged, I press on. `Besides, my young Jedi, do we really want to suddenly find a room full of vengeful gym dudes with wings breathing down our necks?'

Unintentionally I seem to have hit bulls eye. I feel Sam stiffen slightly; shuffle about on my left pectoral and then snuggle down, curling up one long limb over my legs. I start slightly, partly from the fact I have a semi hard-on that, for some reason or other, will not go away and which for obvious reasons I don't want Sam to notice.

Sam still doesn't say anything. My mind is working furiously. It's worse than poker.

`Oh I get it, Sammy boy. You want to see them but you're secretly scared that when, if, they show up, you'll be on the wrong side!'

Sam sighs deeply, as if he has seen the end of all things and is powerless to do anything to stop it. `Yeah.' He half turns his face so his nose is somewhere near my sternum. `You're unusually perceptive tonight, Dean.'

`Yeah right. don't try and distract me!' We were back to the yellow eyed demon and his plans for Sam. Or perhaps we never left him.

`Part of me is a monster, Dean. I struggle with that knowledge every day, striving to be good, to be sent a sign, that I have not been abandoned.'

I am suddenly angry. I sit up, bringing Sam's head up with me,

`Sam I will never abandon you, ever, ok? And it would help if you showed some faith in me!' Faith is not a word I use. Sam looks slightly startled.

`Dean, I know. _I know._ But what match are we, in the end, for an army of cut throats? And sometimes I think that when I am with you I make you vulnerable, that I put you at risk -'

I scowl and drop back down again. My hand has moved down to Sam's wide shoulder and I am embracing him, with another hand touching his waist. His skin is girl smooth but taut, defined. I want to say that being with him gives me purpose, reason, a motive but I'm not sure I can express such pansy sentiments without choking or making Sam laugh.

`I'm your guardian angel, man: remember that! That's all you need to know. Wingless, for the moment!'

Sam laughs and I feel his breath on my chest. He is still, thoughtful, but perhaps he is beginning to tire at last, to unwind.

`Besides' I murmur, with one hand tracing out his nose, `If Angles and demons share the same ontological space, perhaps you're a fallen angel Sam. The yellow eyed dude said he had plans, plans go wrong, or don't work, or get changed - a plan is not destiny? Perhaps he is trying to stop you becoming a full on Seraph?'

I feel Sam grin `that would be cool!' and then he sighs. Shit, he is actually drifting off to sleep! I ease of the stroking and try to picture Sam with wings, great vast wings, a luminous boy standing on the threshold of this world and the next. It is a pleasing image. It makes me smile. We fall into silence. A car drives by outside. It must be almost dawn. I wait for a while, feeling Sammy twitch slightly as he falls into his well of sleep at last, shutting down, his brain shifting gears. After a while I start to disengage my arms and move my legs en route to my own bed. but then Sam starts like we've had a major fucking earthquake.

`Hey!' he leans up, his eyes half closed.

`Sammy dude, now we've concluded this debate I am going to try and meditate for a while-'

He frowns at me, half asleep. `No, stay. Just stay. Take your T shirt off.'

I look both horrified and yet deliriously happy.

`Sam we're a bit fucking old to share a bed -'

`Dean, take your top off and lets get some sleep. I want you to stay with me, OK. Don't argue!'

I pause, suspicious he can see through the act. I make expansive complaints and peel my T shirt away from my own muscled body. Heavier than Sam's, definitely older, but clearly carved from the same stone. Sam says nothing but runs a disapproving hand across the top of my boxers.

`_Sam_ - ' I make an unusual whining sound, and next minute, amid a convulsion of sheets and my brother, I hitch them off and find myself naked with Sam in a bed, thinking still that Sam is an Angel in need; that if I look very carefully between his shoulder blades I might find the knotted whorls of vestigial wings under his skin, like tree rings, a map of creation. Sam slides next to me. I feel his genitals next to mine. We both have hardons but decide manfully to ignore them. Sam's body is hot. Perhaps he is a changeling, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I turn on my side and Sam slips his arms around my waist and hugs my back and we drift away. Did I lock the door? Should I mention this at some stage when I am teasing him in the car? Did I tell him I love him and that my love will be enough, in end, for both of us? Did I conceed I believed in Angels all along?

------------


End file.
